There are no secrets aboard ship, and every time I went ashore there were comments ranging from good-natured ribbing to the frankly envious. Hines, with barbed wit, made it clear he’d have liked to foil my adventures, while the Old Man, handing out an advance of pay, was prompted to deliver a little speech circling around deep waters, weather conditions, and a certain lack of canvas. It was obscure but I got the drift.
Not that it made any difference. Pride made me insist on paying hotel bills, and love made little gifts essential. A length of Chinese silk she admired, a silver vase; a heart-shaped locket for her birthday. My pay barely covered these items, but I refused to worry, just as I ignored the risks I was running. Each return to Hong Kong was a passionate reunion and, if the joy was never as pure as the first time, I considered every moment worth it.
When the ship was in, Dorothea generally gave a small party for the ship’s officers and certain local residents with whom they’d become acquainted. She was not the only hostess to do so. Such gestures were seen as a return of hospitality, but in Dorothea’s case it was more of a tactic to keep criticism at bay. If Dorothea’s husband were likely to be present I would volunteer to stay aboard ship. Whatever the situation between them I had no desire to meet him, nor provide more fuel for gossip.
Evidently though, he had a desire to meet me. Perhaps the third or fourth time we arrived in Hong Kong, he came, unexpectedly, to one of Coptic’s informal receptions. It was a pleasant evening in spring, before the monsoon winds brought summer’s heat and crushing humidity. I knew he was about ten years older, but Dorothea’s description was too vague to alert me when he joined the group I was with. The conversation had been about Canton, which I had never visited, but it quickly degenerated into a debate on the opium trade. With ethics versus pragmatism, it was in danger of becoming heated.
‘It funds almost everything here,’ one man declared. ‘Without it, we couldn’t live like we do. Ban it, and the whole market collapses.’
‘If you’d seen what I’ve seen,’ another said tersely, ‘in some of those back rooms off the Queen’s Road, you’d know the destruction it wreaks. The families of those people…’
‘Oh, you’re talking about the addicts…’
‘They’re all addicts!’
And then the newcomer said lightly, ‘But have any of you ever tried it? Smoked occasionally, it’s really most relaxing…’
Tension shifted at once. I was aware of it but not sure why. In fact at that precise moment I was simply relieved: having been at a loss how to divert the discussion, suddenly this stranger had done it for me. I turned in gratitude, just as someone said, ‘Oh, it’s you, Curtis – might have known you’d have something to say!’
He beamed in response, a clean-shaven, pleasant-faced man with thinning hair and the beginnings of a paunch. Then he turned to me, and, on a speculative look, said, ‘You must be Mr Smith?’
No choice. I had to shake his outstretched hand. ‘I am indeed, sir. How d’you do.’
‘I’m just back from Canton,’ he said blandly, ‘with a party of missionaries glad to be leaving the place. They were talking about the evils of opium too. I didn’t like to tell them the silver in the hold was payment for a cargo from India…’
There was a silence. At a complete loss for words, I glanced over his shoulder, my eyes searching for Dorothea. Someone – the pragmatist – said, ‘What did I tell you? This is a man who knows first-hand how the business works…’
Others joined in, and then Dorothea was at her husband’s elbow, smiling sweetly, urging him to come and meet the Captain. He bowed to the gathered company, cast an ironic smile in my direction and departed.
I’d been in places that sold opium, had even smoked it once. It did nothing for me, and the after effects were so numbing I had no desire to repeat the experiment. But I’d seen the addicts, hunched in doorways or sprawled, glassy-eyed in some dark alley, and I’d stepped past them, wishing they would find somewhere else to sleep it off. To me opium addicts were in the same bracket as drunken seamen: I felt disgust rather than sympathy, did not consider that I had anything to do with the state they were in.
With time, of course, one sees the bigger picture. But then, the fact that Dorothea’s husband was somehow involved in importing opium to China was less shocking to me than that deliberate introduction.
‘He knows,’ were almost the first words I said when she and I were alone again.
‘Of course he does.’
That afternoon Dorothea had brought a picnic to our assignation on the southern side of the island. She laid out the tartan rug, arranging the plates and a cold collation of chicken and salad leaves as though nothing was wrong.
‘What did he say?’
She sat back on her heels, gazing at me as though I were a child needing to have everything explained. ‘He just reminded me to be discreet. He said certain little birds were eager to connect the ship to me, and me to you.’ She paused, busied herself with the cutlery. ‘And yes, he turned up at the reception because he was curious. Wanted to see you for himself.’
Heat flooded my chest and face. I felt like a servant, given the once-over by the master of the house. ‘And did I pass the test? Was I considered good enough to service the mistress?’
Her eyes flashed as the barb went home. Fingers tightened on the knife in her hand. Slowly, she leaned towards me, the blade pointing at my heart. ‘Never,’ she hissed, ‘speak to me like that again.’
I grabbed her wrist, turned it away until she cried out. ‘And don’t you ever point a knife at me, madam.’
Tears sprang to her eyes. As she rubbed her wrist I apologized, said she should know not to threaten anyone like that.
She would not say sorry, and we were silent and apart for a while. Eventually, she said, ‘It’s because it’s gone on so long. I gather he’s known almost from the first, but expected it to fizzle out.’
‘Like the others, you mean?’ The words were out before I could stop them: I didn’t need the shamefaced nod to confirm it. I was no more a fool than Henry Curtis, and knew there had to have been other men before me. Even so I hated her in that moment. Whatever I’d suspected, I didn’t want such confirmation.
It spoiled what should have been a delightful afternoon. There was a half-hearted attempt at reconciliation but I was too sick with jealousy and she no doubt too guilt-ridden for it to be successful.
So, having picked at the food and stared at the view, we made our way back in the trap. Somehow, despite its swaying on the uneven road, she managed to keep a distance between us. Bowling along between lush vegetation, dappled sunlight made an ever-changing pattern on clothes and skin. How like Dorothea that was: hard to pin down; never the same for two minutes together. Watching those slender, capable fingers handling the reins, controlling the sturdy little pony, I marvelled at her. She looked almost frail at times, and yet there was a hidden core of strength that allowed her to twist and turn and manoeuvre until she got what she wanted.
I told myself I hated the way she’d snared me so artfully. In truth I despised myself for being such a willing slave.
Like the witch she was, she read my mind. ‘Do you hate me?’
‘No,’ I sighed. ‘I hate what I don’t know – it torments me. And then you tell me something and I hate it even more.’
A swift glance. ‘Have you no past?’
‘Only you,’ I said softly, knowing it was the truth. I touched the curls at the nape of her neck; her skin was damp and I wanted to taste it. ‘I’m a fool, I know.’
She turned soft dark eyes upon me, full of regret. As her hands relaxed, the swaying trap slowed. ‘If I were free, it would be different. As it is, I have a past – and responsibilities.’ Shortening the reins, urging the pony on again, she said, ‘I thought we could have each other – thought we were all that mattered. I imagined…’
‘What?’
‘Well,’ she admitted, ‘that the moment would be enough.’
I stared hard at her profile, wondering how she could be so blind. So wilfully blind. Aware of the spectre of Harry Jones, I wanted to say, you had a past before I knew you – it was your past which brought us together…
Lacking the courage, I took the opposite tack. ‘What of the future? Do you never think about that?’
‘Not often,’ she said, suddenly brisk. ‘In a place like this, anything can happen. Look at my mother, surviving childbirth twice to die of the fever at twenty-five. I’ve outlived her already. Even had my own brush with death. Who knows how much longer I’ll be here? Life’s short, my darling – I thought you above all would realize that.’
That brash, devil-may-care response typified her. Even so, as the pony’s hooves thudded along, I struggled to absorb what she meant. ‘A brush with death? When was that?’
Another swift glance, then back at the road. ‘Years ago. Didn’t I tell you? I was expecting a child – lost it. I was very ill, nearly died. After that…’ She shrugged, left the rest unsaid. A bird clattered out of the trees and she clicked her tongue as the pony shied. ‘But I thought you knew.’
I shook my head, amazed by her ability to confound me. ‘You said you couldn’t have children. You didn’t say why.’
‘Perhaps not.’ A brief enigmatic smile as she negotiated a corner. ‘Doesn’t do to dwell,’ she said.
Feeling inadequate I gave up then, unsure whether the feeling inside was anger or despair.
~~~
The future was important to me – or had been, until I met Dorothea. Now the present was paramount. All I wanted was her love, yet with every crossing of the Pacific, the days we had left were falling off the calendar like leaves from a dying tree. I wanted to stop time, hold it back, but there was nothing to grasp.
I learned how short the hours of pleasure could be and, during those endless blue Pacific days, how painful were the days and weeks between. In Dorothea’s company I could think of nothing but her; away from her I was consumed by doubt as well as longing. I began to entertain fantasies, to talk about leaving White Star and finding a position with one of the companies setting up in the Far East. But there was no point in that unless Dorothea would divorce Curtis and marry me.
When I dared to voice those hopes, she cut me dead. No, there was no possibility of divorce. The scandal would be unbearable, and how would she manage the business? Besides, there was Nicholas to think of in London.
I began to think the business and Nicholas were a ready excuse. My old fear, that I was simply not good enough for her, reared its ugly head. Tormented by it, knowing my career was the only thing between myself and that tradesman’s boy from Hanley, I tried to imagine giving it up. That I was even willing to consider it horrified me.
Consumed by desire, I thought it was love. Maybe it was. I wanted to believe that she loved me too, but that fantasy lasted only so long as I was at sea. Ashore, I was faced with reality; she did not want to share her life with me, only the excitement of the moment. It went against everything I had ever believed of women – decent women that is – and made me feel rather less than the man I’d imagined myself to be.
Perhaps it was inevitable. We were no longer new lovers discovering the wonder of each other, but existing on snatched assignations, sometimes at the house when Curtis was absent. I often wondered what the servants thought of my visits, but when I voiced such thoughts Dorothea said they were paid to work, not to think. And anyway, she added pettishly, they were Chinese, so what did it matter?
That was unlike her. I knew she relied heavily upon Li, the elderly retainer who seemed to combine the duties of butler and major-domo: certainly he kept the other servants under control. He’d been with the family since her father’s day, so I imagined his allegiance was to Dorothea rather than Curtis – but that didn’t mean he agreed with what she was doing. No matter how differently the Chinese lived, as I understood it, adultery was adultery, no matter the race or creed.
Dorothea’s husband might have abandoned his marital responsibilities, but I have to say I was never easy in that house. The portrait of Dorothea’s mother hanging in the drawing room seemed to watch me at every turn. Although Curtis left little impression on the place, I saw David Lang in every shadow, felt the power of his fortune like a weight at my back.
Often, I found myself reflecting on that hot afternoon at the garden party, when David Lang had dismissed me like some tradesman’s boy. I had so wanted to prove that I was better than that. And yet here I was, in love with the daughter he’d warned me against, and behaving like some unprincipled scoundrel in a cheap romance.
I wasn’t the first, but what did that signify? I’d lost most of the pleasure in my job; I moped one way across the Pacific, and battled with the weather and my desires on the way back.
Hines the Swine, proved his epithet. Needling me about Dorothea, on occasion he used fo’c’sle language. The first time I almost took a swing at him, and it was only a swift word and Cooper’s grasp on my arm that stopped me. After that, knowing what he was after, I schooled myself to walk away, shut him out. On a less personal level he constantly found fault, warning me that if I didn’t buck up, I would be in trouble. Did I want Decline to Report written in my Seaman’s Discharge Book? That would scupper any ambitions I might have had.
He was right, of course. There were occasions when I’d been late back to the ship and less than meticulous about my duties. Worse, leaving Hong Kong for Shanghai on our next return to San Francisco, I found it difficult to sleep and hard to rouse myself for my watch. But what angered me was the way Hines managed to insinuate that I was lazy, not up to the job, not White Star material. He must have had a word with the Old Man, because a few days after we left China I was summoned to his presence.
‘Sit down,’ he said gruffly, waving me to the seat beside his desk. Captain Kidley was a man I respected; tough but not unkind. Mostly, discipline was left to the Mate, which was how it should be; only when things were serious did he intervene, so I knew I was in for some hard talk.
‘I want to keep this informal, Mr Smith, because in spite of evidence to the contrary, I believe you have a future with this company.’
That was an opening to gain my full attention.
‘I do not like to presume upon a man’s private life,’ he went on, eyes glinting beneath bushy brows, ‘but in this case, I gather your private life has become public knowledge in Hong Kong.’ He paused to let that sink in. ‘I tried to warn you before, but I fear it is starting to impinge. Not just upon your reputation, Mr Smith, but upon the reputation of this ship – and, by association, White Star.
‘We cannot allow this situation to continue. The woman you are consorting with…’ I noticed he used the word woman, rather than lady, ‘is married to an important Hong Kong resident. I cannot comment on their personal arrangements – that is beyond my knowledge – but if necessary I can prevent you from continuing an association that I consider detrimental to good order…’
There was no need for him to spell it out. As the ship’s Master he could refuse permission for me to go ashore; and if I should be foolish enough to disobey, the reprimand would be official, and entered in the ship’s log book to be submitted the Registrar General of Shipping at the end of the voyage. That would mean dismissal. An end to my career as a ship’s officer.
‘It hasn’t gone that far – yet. But from what I hear it seems to be heading that way. Your work is suffering. I imagine as a result of this unfortunate liaison. Am I right?’
I swallowed hard. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well then, Mr Smith. I advise you – most strongly – to end it.’
I nodded and made to rise. Captain Kidley waved me back down. Addressing me again, his tone was a degree or two less frosty.
‘Life, for a seafarer, is hard. You know that. You’re not a boy, you’ve been a shipmaster yourself. You know the pitfalls. If you were faced with this situation you would say what I am about to say: do not let this woman ruin you. No matter what you think and feel at the moment, she isn’t worth it.’
‘No, sir.’
‘I want your word, Mr Smith, that when we return to Hong Kong, you will behave with discretion, be prompt about your duties, and give me no more cause for concern.’
I nodded, weak with relief. There was only one answer. ‘You have it, sir.’
‘Good.’ The Captain turned to his desk. The interview was over.
~~~
Returning to my cabin, I sank down on the bunk and buried my head in my hands. There was no choice. I knew the truth of what the Old Man was saying. In a way, it was almost a relief. He was right: I would say the same to any man in my position.
I had no claim on Dorothea. No future. She’d made that plain. And the Old Man had made it clear that I couldn’t have her and my career. But how was I to give her up?
I rolled over, smothering painful gasps in the pillow. That it should come to this! She had me, right where she wanted me – only had to crook her finger for me to jump and do whatever she wanted. What was I to her? Excitement to liven the dull days, something to look forward to when the ship returned. And when we lay together, bathed in each other’s sweat, while I pleasured her, loved her, longed to make her mine, did she never think what she was doing to me?
Time was running out. She knew that as well as I did. Two, maybe three more visits and Coptic would be leaving. Did it matter to her? It didn’t seem to. That was my problem, the reason I was in such a mess, not sleeping, making mistakes, barely able at times to drag myself out of my bunk. The Old Man was right: it had to stop.
~~~
It was one thing to make that decision, another to live with it. After leaving Shanghai for San Francisco, I expected we would be back in Hong Kong within our usual nine or ten weeks, but it was longer than that. In the vicinity of the China Sea on our return we were hit by an early typhoon, the whole ship struggling against the battering of enormous seas. Sky and sea were one. Impossible to see further than a few yards as wind and rain and spray lashed the open bridge. We were pitching and rolling, a dangerous spiral motion that lifted the stern clear while the prow buried itself, sending huge green waves rolling down the foredeck.
Each time the propeller came clear and raced madly, the engineers below struggled to control the revs. When she smacked down, the engine groaned like an animal in its death-throes. There was a danger she would break in two. With every massive sea the Old Man yelled warnings to the Chief down the chartroom speaking tube. I couldn’t think what conditions were like below – it was a bare-knuckle fight on deck.
The quartermaster’s veins stood out with effort as he fought to control the wheel. An hour was as much as he could stand without a break. Changing lookouts every two hours, we officers did the usual four-hour stint in our oilskins, clinging hand over hand from one side of the open bridge to the other.
Just like sailing-ship days, I thought; not exactly enjoying it, but finding perverse satisfaction in a hell that mirrored my inner turmoil. Until, that is, Coptic pushed her nose into the kind of wave that had turned Lizzie Fennel on her beam ends.
Luckily, I was off watch and in my bunk when it happened, but the force of the blow landed me on the deck. I scrambled to my feet. A few paces to the bridge and I saw Hines was down and bleeding profusely, the lookout trying to hold him as he slid about amidst great shards of glass. The chartroom windows were shattered.
The Old Man was all right but Hines was out cold, his face badly cut. He came round a minute or so later but the doctor discovered he also had a broken arm. After that, the Old Man and I hardly left the bridge, and when he did, to grab a couple of hours’ rest, he left me in charge.
Suddenly, after two full days and a night of it, the wind died away. By the second evening we were still being thrown about on disturbed and massive seas, but the rain had stopped, the clouds had lifted. We even saw the stars again. As young Cooper and I attempted to establish just where we were, Hines staggered to the bridge, his splinted arm in a sling.
We were all grey with strain, but Hines, his face criss-crossed by scabs and stitches, looked infinitely worse. ‘Thank God that’s over.’ Through swollen lips, the words came out like a groan.
I shook my head. ‘I doubt it, sir. Give it a few hours, we’ll be in it again.’ He denied it, said I was wrong; in his opinion we were through the typhoon. But past experience told me there could be a hellish couple of days yet to come, and I was too tired to be tactful. ‘No, sir. Just look at those seas – coming from every direction. It’s the eye of the storm. I’d get back to bed if I were you. Get some sleep while you can.’
He eyed me for a moment, disliking my tone I think, as much as the contradiction. I half expected a caution for cockiness, but he let it go.
We had much to follow, though not as bad. But if the first blast had caught and measured my anguish, strangely, that small respite in the eye of the storm was a turning point. There had been no time to think while we were battling for survival – I’d simply accepted that the Old Man had to grab an hour’s rest here and there, and with Hines laid up, I was the logical replacement. But the fact that the Old Man had trusted me – after his reprimand – was almost overwhelming. I knew at last that I’d begun to redeem myself. Not just in his eyes, but my own.
~~~
Between Shanghai and Hong Kong I was deeply apprehensive. Fearful, yes, but mainly of my own emotions. Dorothea could be cold and cutting when she chose, and I almost prayed for it, knowing it would make the parting easier.
After much deliberation I sent a note ashore shortly after we docked, asking her to meet me at one of the better hotels in town two evenings hence. Circumstances, I added, made it impossible for me to come ashore earlier than that. I hoped she would read the message between my brief lines. I wanted her to be prepared.
The chosen evening did not augur well. It was mid-June, bucketing with rain as I left the ship. Despite a borrowed umbrella I was soaked before I arrived. Booking a room, I asked for some drinks to be sent up and poured myself a stiff gin, adding a splash of tonic water as I rehearsed what I would say. Something along the lines of my career and future against no future at all. We must say goodbye, because even if I ditched White Star and tried for a position out East… But no, that must not be said; that direction was a blind alley. I must stick to goodbye.
Having arrived early, I felt my heartbeat quicken as the appointed time came. It passed, and I poured myself another gin, consulted my pocket-watch, checked the time every few minutes for more than an hour. Concern mounted to anger, and descended to anxiety. I went down, enquired at the desk: there were no messages. Undecided, I stood by the door for a while, knowing I could not return to the ship without finding out what was wrong. If Curtis was at home – well, so be it, I would face him too. Since the rain was passing, I set off to walk up to the house.
Apart from one small light, the place was in darkness. I rang the bell and Dorothea’s Chinese manservant answered, his smooth old face impassive as he asked me to wait in the hall. He left me there a moment or two, returning with two envelopes: the one I’d addressed to Dorothea, and another bearing my name.
‘Madam gone to London,’ Li said as I gazed at it. ‘Brother sick. She say sorry, Mr Smith.’
Speechless, my head full of questions, I could only turn the envelope over in my hands. The old man bowed, indicated a chair, asked if I would like tea. I said yes and sat down to open the letter. It was just one page and dated some three weeks previously.
‘Dearest, this will come as a shock I know but I have to go home to England. Nicholas is very ill. So things must be arranged with regard to the business. With no idea when I might return I have closed up the house as far as possible and left Li in charge. Curtis will come and go as he sees fit. He has taken up residence in the apartment above the office – says he prefers it so while I’m away.
‘I know your time with the ship is coming to an end. We would have had to say goodbye sooner or later… better we part now…’
Several words were smudged. Suspecting tears were the cause, I felt my own throat tighten as I struggled to make out her meaning.
‘… may not believe me perhaps but it is true. What we had, my love, will never be again. I shall remember you always. Ever yours, Dorothea…’
Tension leached away as I read. Re-read and read again. Drained, I sagged forward, staring at the paper between my hands. It was over. She had ended it, and I thought my heart would break.
Li brought tea and went away. It was only as I roused myself to push the letter back into its envelope that something fell out – a fine gold chain, one she had often worn around her neck, but minus the small gold locket I had given her.
On the back of the letter, she had written a post-script: ‘The chain for you – the heart for me.’